Spinning Wheel
by Sabrina Empress of Insanity
Summary: I have been performing almost all my life, until I'd forgotten why I loved it. She made me love it again. eventual shoujoai and onesided RosettaSora
1. Chapter One

It seems like I've been in the spotlight my entire life. Not that I was forced into it or anything. I love having an audience. If anything, I started the whole thing myself. My father was pretty reluctant about it, but it seemed to make me so happy, and my mother insisted that it was good for me, so eventually he caved.

I remember the first time I saw a real performance, live. My parents didn't let me watch much television when I was little because they didn't want me to see anything that might not be good for a small child or to become lazy and lethargic like all the other children. If there was something important going on, I was allowed to watch a little bit with them, but I never went to the movies or watched the children's shows that were on in the mornings. Not that I noticed. Our house in Belgium wasn't very large--Mother was a kindergarten teacher, and Father worked at the downtown office as an executive clerk, so we weren't particularly well-off--but it had a lawn that stretched out into the fields behind us without fences, and plenty of room for all the neighborhood kids to run around between their own houses and the others. It was much more fun outside, when I was allowed out. I used to catch cold easily, but once I was about two years old I grew out of that and was allowed to play outside much more often.

The show was on one of our trips downtown to pick up my father at work. Every so often Mother would take me with her to run errands instead of leaving me with one of the neighbors, and we would surprise Father as he got off work and all go home together. That day, we decided to have dinner at a restaurant for a change; this was a very big deal to me, as I was barely three, I think, and rarely got to go out for more than an hour or so to run errands with Mother. It wasn't a very fancy restaurant, but it was nice, the food was good, and the servers were very friendly, even bringing me an extra flower to put in my hair. I remember giggling over the rose and how I kept taking it out from behind my ear to look at it again. Red, like my hair. It was such a novelty.

After dinner, the three of us started back to the garage where Mother had left the car (Father usually took the bus to and from work). On our way there, I heard music, and soon enough we passed a small crowd by one of the benches in the square. My parents stopped for a moment to listen, and I managed to pull my mother far enough forward that I could see what was going on.

There was a young girl playing a fiddle next to the bench, an up-tempo folk tune that I don't quite remember because I didn't know the name of it at the time, and in front of the bench were two slightly older boys throwing bottles, balls, and small fruits and eggs up in the air. I'd never seen anyone juggle before. I'd never seen anyone play any instruments before either, save my mother on the piano, but I'd heard fiddles before on the radio. I kept tugging at my mother's sleeve and demanding to know what they were doing, but she just kept warning me not to get to close in case they dropped something. Still, she and my father let me stay longer to watch them. I was enthralled. When they finally took a break three songs later and my family and I left, it was the biggest let down of my short life.

I didn't see another live performance like that for nearly another year. Or rather, I saw a few live shows in town passing by, and in restaurants, but they were almost always musical. There was nothing like the juggling duo to be found, but I had mostly forgotten about them anyway, at least until the next year. I was busy learning to climb trees when my mother wasn't looking, or trying to teach the other children to do somersaults. I was trying to teach one of the boys, Joseph, I think, when all of our parents came outside with the big news. There was a small circus coming to town, and they had decided to take all of us that weekend to go see them. Most of us didn't know what the circus was yet, but the older children and their younger brothers and sisters did, and when they cheered we cheered, too. Whatever it was must be exciting, after all.

The night before we went to the circus, my father told me all about what would happen there; how I would get to see the elephants and giraffes and all sorts of strange animals, about the acrobats and trapeze artists that flew through the air like in the stories, the clowns like I'd seen in picture books that rode around on tiny bicycles, the cotton candy and toys I could buy, everything. I was so excited I couldn't get to sleep that night. I kept running into my parents' room and asking when morning was coming and how soon before we left _now_, until my mother yelled at my father for getting me so excited and told me to go to bed right that instant or else I wouldn't be going to the circus at all, young lady. After that, I stayed awake as long as I could in my room, staring out the window and imagining what the animals would be like, or twirling around the room pretending that I was one of the dancers in the circus that I'd heard rode around on the backs of horses without saddles.

Of course I fell asleep eventually, but I was just as excited when I woke up as if I never had. Mother let me wear my nicest yellow dress, the one with the white sash and ribbon trim, with two white barrettes in my hair. She even cleaned up my dirty white sneakers so that they looked nicer and I wouldn't throw a fit about not being allowed to wear my church shoes. Of course when I went outside, the boys and some of the girls teased me, but I just shot back that I looked better than they did, stupid kids that looked like weeds in their best clothes. The last part I said in French and my father gave me a warning pinch, but I was glad I said it. Even if I was wearing yellow, I thought I looked like the roses that I'd always liked ever since that night in the restaurant. Red roses, red like my hair.

I think that was also the first time I'd ever dressed up for others as well as myself. All the other adults exclaimed over how I looked, and I wasn't just happy to show the other children that I _was_ pretty, but I almost expected the attention. I know it was the first time I dressed up before the circus, although pale yellow and white proved wholly impractical for later performances.

Oddly enough, I don't remember much about that circus at all. You'd think that with how excited I was and how important it ended up being later on, I would remember every detail of the performance, but I don't. I think it might have been too much for my little girl mind; I was overwhelmed and just forgot most of it. I do remember getting sick on too much cotton candy and my mother making me drink flat soda to calm my stomach so we didn't have to go home early. I remember looking at the elephants and wondering if I'd ever be that big. I remember thinking the clowns were rather silly and not that interesting, though I don't remember what it was they did or what they looked like. I remember the excitement, the sounds of the crowd gasping as the acrobats and trapeze artists and tightrope walkers and daredevils of all kinds performed amazing feats that none of us in the audience could ever dream of doing...I just don't remember what they did.

I vaguely remember thinking, _I could do that_. Of course, all of the neighborhood children were busy saying the same thing on all sides of me. The difference was that they couldn't, eventually. But right then, we all thought we could, and so did I.

Really, I don't remember much outside of how I felt watching everything that one time. I never saw a circus again, not really, not with the innocence and wonder I felt then. The trouble was I didn't understand what I was seeing when I was just barely four. I was the youngest of all the children there. Maybe the only reason I don't remember much of anything is because I was so young. It's too bad, really. I do remember liking everything I saw, and I didn't get much of a chance to see it again.

But I remember the jugglers, because when I saw them I remembered those two young men and the fiddler girl from the year before. And I remember when one of them brought out the diabolo.

I never asked for lots of toys and presents as a child. I'd get one new toy and amuse myself with it for weeks until something new came around. There was no reason for me to beg for more things like you might think. I was happy with what I had. But I begged and pleaded for something as we left the circus. The other girls were all picking up dolls of the performers or batons and things like that; the boys were grabbing the stuffed lions and tigers or demanding devil sticks and plastic swords. My mother started to pick out a stuff tiger for me, but I shook my head and kept looking until she grew impatient and tried to get me to leave. It wasn't until we passed the last stand that I saw what I wanted.

"Papa, Mama!" I grabbed my father's sleeve and tugged back on it and my mother's hand. "Papa, Mama! I want-"

"Darling," my father started in a tired voice, "the circus is closing. We have to go home now."

I refused to go. "I want that!"

I let go of his sleeve and pointed at something red on one of the middle shelves of the stand we were passing, jumping up to show how high up it was. My parents stopped and followed my gestures, looking at each other inquisitively when they saw what I wanted. I was too busy chanting to fully notice. "That one! That one! I want that one!"

I suppose my father bargained with the man at the stand, and I'm sure my mother gave me a short talk about how I couldn't play with that thing indoors or until the next day when it wasn't too dark to go outside, but I didn't pay attention. The seller asked if we wanted a bag, and I shook my head when my mother started to say yes.

When my father handed me the bright red plastic diabolo and the wooden sticks with the rubber grips at the ends all tied together with the string tied to the other ends, I wrapped my arms around them, hugged them to my chest, and didn't let go the entire drive home.

* * *

It was only a week or two later that my father was transferred to France again. I was still young enough to not really know what all moving to another country would entail, but I was angry at having to leave our nice house with the open yard and all the tall windows for a big house that we rattled around in and that didn't have nearly as nice a yard. It was large enough, but everything was fenced in because we were nearer to the city and we had more neighbors and some of them had dogs. 

I also hated how some of the other children made fun of my accent. It wasn't there, really, not much, and I got rid of it quickly enough, but they still laughed. And their French was so fast, andthey usedall these words I had never heard before! I made friends eventually, when I started school, but that first spring and summer I didn't talk to the other children very much. I didn't even approach the ones that were friendly to me in case they teased me, too. I didn't like being made fun of.

Since I didn't much care for our new house, I spent most of my time alone in the backyard. We did have a small wading pool--the one new novelty that I really enjoyed--but it wasn't deep enough for me to drown unless I hit my head and fell into it. The deeper end might have been dangerous, maybe, but my father had taught me how to swim after a country wedding where I kept diving into the river after the fish when I was two, so I was still safe. It was only ever deep enough for the water to come up to my shoulders sitting, and my mother was watching from the window. I spent a lot of time in the pool, pretending I was climbing in and out of a mirror between here and "home" in Belgium. Sometimes I would ride my tricycle around the yard, or try and make little forts in the grass to hide in. Mostly, though, I played with the diabolo.

The man at the circus hadn't given any sort of instruction book, so I spent quite some time even figuring out how to get the pretty red diabolo spinning. I could throw it around all right, but the string was too long for me to pick it up off the ground and get it spinning. After I hit myself in the face trying to get the diabolo and string off of the ground one day, my mother shortened the strings. She also got rid of the rubber grips when they proved too slippery for me to hold on.

Once I figured out how to get the diabolo spinning, I wanted to see how fast I could get it to go. Little kids have so much energy, and when they're having fun they don't notice themselves getting tired or their muscles getting sore. I didn't notice if my arms grew sore or if my shoulder hurt. I was having too much fun. I could get the diabolo going quite fast after only a little practice. I imagined it was fast enough to outrun the cars in the streets, and the airplanes that sometimes flew by overhead. I used to spend hours spinning my little diabolo and yelling for my mother to come and watch, or my father if he were home. They always pretended they were, but I got the impression that they were growing bored very quickly. That was why I had to learn to do more.

By my fifth birthday I could loop the strings around the diabolo and unloop them again with getting them tangled, swing it in circles in front of me, and make it climb up the strings in either direction. I could even start it spinning without rolling it on the ground first. I had some trouble catching it when I threw it in the air, but that was mostly because I wasn't allowed to practice that indoors and my father tended to worry that I would hurt myself if he saw me when he came home. Every time I learned a new trick I would show it off to my parents and grandparents (my mother's parents, of course), and sometimes the neighbors if they were over. The diabolo was fun, but it was even more fun when people were watching and clapping. They weren't bored very much any more. Even my parents, who saw me playing day after day, were amused when I performed.

The little red diabolo chipped and started to wear out. My mother bought me a new one from a store in Paris when she was visiting her sister one weekend, a rubber one. It was heavier than the plastic one, but somehow that made it easier to throw and catch. I got better at throwing and started playing around with spins to make the catches more impressive, and sometimes tried working with both the new and old diabolos. My parents noticed me struggling with the different weights, and immediately went and bought me two more of the nice rubber kind. The little red plastic diabolo went into a special drawer in my bedroom, and later onto the shelf where I put the toys I'd outgrown but didn't want to throw away as I grew older. By the time I started kindergarten, I had started making up routines to the music my mother listened to through the kitchen windows, and whenever I had the chance I would perform them for whomever I could find that was willing to watch.

We had show-in-tell in kindergarten once a week. My turn didn't come until it was almost October. There were five of us that went at a time. Because we went in alphabetical order, I happened to be last because I was the first of the "P" names. Everyone oohed and aahed over the four children who went before me. Henri had brought in a truck that turned into some sort of snarling beast when you pressed a hook in the back that his aunt had brought him from America. Violette had photos of her three kittens, who were only a few months old. Anne had brought in her favorite doll, which had twelve different outfits and a fancy toy car to go with it. Jean didn't get much applause, since he brought in a shed snakeskin he'd found that summer and most of the girls were afraid of it, but all the boys were impressed at least.

When it was my turn, I didn't say anything. I had made quite a few friends by then, but none of them were close because I was still shy and worried that someone would make fun of me like the neighborhood children had at first. That and I didn't go to the park to play with them or stay the night at their houses like most of my classmates. I wanted to practice my diabolo. So when I stood in front of the classroom, I didn't say anything at first. I held the bag with my diabolos and sticks in them close to me, and looked at the teacher. After a moment, I held out a tape for her to play. I wasn't afraid of messing up or being laughed at for once. I was completely sure of what I was going to do. I was just too excited to speak.

Once the teacher had put the tape into the player, I tipped the contents of my bag out onto the floor, set the diabolos on their rims and picked up the sticks. When I was ready, I looked at her and found my voice for just a moment. "Start, please."

The second the music began playing, I forgot that I was just a five year old girl, not even a native of France and just beginning school. I was as confident and sure of myself as if I'd been doing this my entire life. I suppose, given my age, I sort of had been. I'd had to revise the routine a bit so that I didn't hit the ceiling or swing the strings out so far that the diabolo hit someone in the audience--not my class, the audience--but the rest of it was nothing but muscle memory. I spun, threw, twirled, jumped, and juggled my way through till the end of the song. It wasn't perfect--I still wasn't strong enough to catch the heavier rubber diabolos without losing too much tension in the strings, and when I tried to make one jump over my foot I just set it to spinning up the string instead--but I thought it was. What was more important was the way my class reacted when I was done.

They didn't just applaud or go, "Awww," like the adults did. They _cheered_. Some of the boys even stood up and waved their arms in the air. The girls were all screaming my name.

It was, needless to say, a thoroughly satisfying first public performance.

After school that day, when my mother came to pick me up, the teacher took us both aside. I remember that I was worried she would be angry at me for ordering her around during show-and-tell, or that I was going to get in trouble for throwing things inside since I wasn't even allowed to at home. My mother didn't say anything, but I think she was worried, too. Probably not about the same things I was, no--she was a kindergarten teacher, too, and knew what sorts of things might make one talk with a student and parent after school let out. Still, she was worried, and that made me even more afraid.

Instead of yelling, though, my teacher took us back into the classroom and asked my mother if she'd seen me perform before.

My mother told her of course she had, she had been the one who bought me the new diabolo and she and my father always watched me while I practiced in case I tripped and fell backwards into the pool again or hit myself with an errant diabolo. She told my teacher a little bit about how much I'd liked the diabolo performers at the circus in Belgium and how I played with mine more than any of my other toys. There was pride in her words, although I didn't completely register it at the time. I was too worried I was about to get slapped with a ruler or thrown out of school.

"Madame Passel," the teacher continued with a smile when my mother had finished, "your daughter performed in class today for show-and-tell. I must say, I've been going to see the circuses in Paris since I was a little girl, and your daughter is easily as talented as the younger performers there. Not the amateurs, the professionals."

I didn't understand, but my mother's mouth dropped open. "She--how? She's only a little girl, she's taught herself and she's only been playing around for eight or nine months..."

"Oh, she's hardly the most talented diabolo performer I've seen," my teacher laughed, "but she's still very, very good. And I don't think she views it as playing around. Do you?"

This last part was addressed at me. I wasn't afraid anymore, but I was still confused and didn't want to risk speaking lest I get myself in trouble anyway. I nodded slowly.

"Madame Passel," the teacher continued, turning back to my mother. "you and your husband have done a wonderful thing, nurturing your daughter's interests. She has a gift, a true gift. I would encourage you to find a teacher for her, someone who can fine-tune her abilities and bring her up to the professional level with her diabolo. She may decide that she's lost interest or that she would rather practice by herself for her friends and family, but it can't hurt to give her the opportunity to become the best of the best as soon as possible, can it?"

I couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Madame!" I raised my hand politely, but I was still demanding answers, already a diva in my own right. "What are you talking about with my mother?"

"Darling." My mother leaned forward on her knees. "Your teacher thinks you're very, very good at performing."

"Exactly." My teacher nodded. "I truly enjoyed your show today."

"How would you feel," my mother asked gently, "about having someone come to teach you the diabolo, maybe..." She looked at my teacher questioningly.

"Once a week or so," my teacher finished. "Wouldn't you like that?"

I stared at both of them for a moment. Were they loony? "Of course I would. What kind of question is that?"

Both my mother and teacher burst out laughing at that, and I was even more confused. Still, the euphoria at hearing I was going to _really_ learn the diabolo stayed with me the entire walk back to our house. My mother didn't hold my hand because I was carrying my bag, but she walked right beside me as if she did and didn't offer to carry the bag for me. I would come to resent everyone for acting as if I were self-sufficient later on, but right then I was grateful to her for letting me carry it myself.

I don't remember the rest of the day, since I immediately went outside after changing into play clothes to practice more. At dinner, my mother and father spent most of their time talking about finding this teacher for me and whether or not it was a good idea. I probably should have paid more attention to the argument then, but I was too excited.

I remember, though, when my mother tucked me into bed that night. She smoothed down my hair over my forehead, something she hadn't done since we'd moved to France, and smiled at me before kissing me goodnight. On her way out of my bedroom, she turned off the light and spoke to me from the doorway, but it wasn't her usual "Sweet dreams."

"Someday, Rosetta," she said instead, "the world will think you're as amazing as we already do."


	2. Chapter Two

Looking back, I suppose my parents found me a teacher quite quickly. My mother tells me it was tricky finding a studio that had any instructors that even knew how to use a diabolo, much less someone who specialized in it. After only a couple of weeks, though, my father came across a gymnastics class that happened to have a teacher who apparently was quite talented with diabolos and other gymnastics toys. So it was less than a month later that I first met Marie Fleur.

My first thought upon setting eyes on my new teacher was that she was too young to be one. She was old, certainly, maybe even as old as twenty-five which seemed to be ages away back then, but nowhere near as ancient as my parents and teachers. She wasn't that tall, her fashionable short hair was still jet black, and she wore bright, rather revealing clothing that was nothing like what the adults I knew wore. Her eyes were nearly as dark as her hair, and sharp, very sharp. She studied me for a long time as I stood there in polite silence, curiosity eating me alive.

"How old is she again, Monsieur Passel?"

Her voice was still high, still young. I looked at my father curiously-this was who they thought could teach me? She couldn't possibly know enough, she wasn't old enough. She didn't seem like an adult, so naturally she wouldn't know as much as they would...

"She is five years old, Mademoiselle Fleur." My father put a comforting hand on my shoulder, but I didn't want comfort. I want explanations. "Her teachers and our neighbors think she is very talented, though."

"They aren't experts, are they?" It wasn't a question that needed an answer. I was shocked at her tone. No one talked to my father like that! It was how things worked...how dare she!

"Perhaps not, but that is why they suggested we look for someone who would know for sure."

The young woman didn't move at all, but suddenly her air seemed stronger, bigger, even more than my father had always seemed to me. Her voice was certainly louder, more snappish. "Monsieur Passel, I am hardly an expert. I work at a gymnastics and dance studio. I am a gymnast. I am not a diabolo master of any kind."

"Papa!" I tugged at his sleeve and whispered up at him in that loud way that young children have. "She says she's no good. Can we find someone else?"

Piercing dark eyes immediately focused on me and I would have shrunk back in nervous fear if not for the fact that this person had been rude to my father and that was unforgivable. I stared back fiercely until my father's voice took my attention elsewhere again. I could still feel her eyes on me even as he spoke. "Mademoiselle Fleur, I have heard nothing but praise for you. Master or not, you clearly have some ability and we would be most grateful if you would consider teaching our daughter."

The young woman said nothing for a long moment. I tugged at my father's sleeve again, but he gently brushed my fingers off and put a hand comfortingly on my hair. I moved my head a little to shake him off, but it was a half-hearted gesture at best. I adored my father even though he wasn't at home as often as Mother was, and for all that I was trying to appear tough, this prospective teacher frightened me a bit.

When she spoke, it was as if she had suddenly come to the decision, rather than deliberating over it for what seemed like interminable minutes. "Well, Monsieur Passel, you have roused my curiosity. As long as she is a good student, I will teach your daughter."

I looked up at my father in alarm, and a smile spread over his face. He took the woman's hand and shook it firmly, as if sealing a business deal. "Thank you, Mademoiselle. I'll leave you two for a bit, then."

I grabbed at his hand as he turned to leave. "Papa! I don't _like_ her!"

"Please, Rosetta, behave!"

"Yes, Rosetta," the woman called, mocking me I swear, "behave. Do your parents proud."

As the door to the studio closed between my father and me, I wanted nothing more than to never turn around and to simply run through the doors, cling to my father's legs, and never let go. Instead, I turned to face the hard-faced young woman and hoped the way I now gripped the diabolo and sticks with both hands tightly enough that my knuckles ached wouldn't betray my nerves. The woman raised an eyebrow at me, then sighed and dropped cross-legged onto the mat that covered the floor. "Come here, please."

I didn't move. I didn't speak, gave no real challenge, but I still refused. She seemed unfazed, and after fixing me with another of those odd gazes, spoke again. "Rosetta. Unusual name. Did your parents want you to be teased in school?"

I bristled. I couldn't help it. I hadn't been teased, but she had challenged my parents. Unforgivable! "Mama said she wanted me to have a name that everyone would remember."

"Hmm." A pause. "She could've stood to be more creative if that's what she was going for. Come here, Rosetta."

This time I took a step backwards. "No. You're making fun of us."

"There are two of you in there now?" she all but sneered.

"Don't make fun of me!" I was torn between tears and fury. I despised this woman already, and at the same time I wanted to go home, to hide behind my parents and go back to just playing by myself until they could find me a _nice_ teacher, one who wouldn't mock them or me. "I'll leave if you don't stop!"

The young woman shrugged. "It's not my concern. Your parents already paid for today. You'll just be cheating them out of their money, I'll get off without having to deal with you, and I'll get paid for it anyway."

I tensed, and walked forward stiffly to join her on the mats. I didn't sit, but seeing as she was almost eye level with me anyway it hardly seemed to make any difference. She nodded, and held out a hand. "I'm Marie. We may as well introduce ourselves."

I frowned, still trying to keep the upper hand. "You already know my name."

"Yes, but I'd rather we start this off on good terms."

I almost blurted out how stupid that was, seeing as we'd clearly done just the opposite already, but I kept a reign on my tongue. "I'm Rosetta. It's...a pleasure to meet you."

For just a second, Marie cracked what looked like a true smile. "Polite little girl, aren't you? That's good." Her expression went back to pure business and sarcasm. "Hopefully that means you'll listen to me even when you don't want to."

I frowned again. "You're not very nice."

"I'm not paid to be nice, I'm paid to teach little girls whose parents want them to be stars how to be better than me for minimal pay." She cut off the word abruptly, then stood. "Well, Rosetta, let's see what you can do. Do you have anything prepared?"

I hesitated. No one had said anything about preparing something in advance...but I couldn't tell Marie that. She'd probably use that as another excuse to get rid of me or laugh at me. I just went silent again for a moment, then, just as a sly grin began to spread over my teacher's face, I titled my chin up and looked away. "I don't prepare. I..." What was the phrase I had heard that singer use on TV? "It interferes with the emotion of the performance."

Marie's eyebrows rose again, and she snorted. "Great," she muttered to herself, "we've got a pretentious one, too. All right, then," she continued, raising her voice again, "then improvise. I need to get an idea of your skill."

I stepped back and unwrapped the sticks and string from the diabolo. No sooner had I thrown the diabolo into the air, though, than Marie grabbed my arm and shook her head. "Wrong."

I whirled, wincing as I heard the diabolo hit the mat with a loud thump and bounce across it to a halt. "I didn't even do anything yet!"

"You stand sideways when you toss it," Marie said coolly, going after the diabolo. "So that you stand behind it. Then you throw it and turn to catch it."

"Why?" I demanded, hands planted on my tiny little girl hips. "It works the way I do it."

"That doesn't matter. You have to learn the proper ways, too, otherwise the judges won't care how good you are. They'll just penalize you for improper technique."

I stopped. "Judges?"

The diabolo came flying through the air towards me and I flung out the sticks to catch it. It wobbled madly, but I managed to balance it out again and looked at Marie curiously as I kept spinning absently. "What judges?"

"For the diabolo competitions. If you're serious about getting better at this, then you'll have to compete at some point. All the professional studios require that you do."

"Compete?"

"Are you on repeat or something?" Marie moved behind me and gripped both of my lower arms lightly. She held my left arm almost perfectly still and began guiding the right stick so that it alternately crossed over and under the left one. "This looks more impressive that just spinning it, and it'll give the diabolo more movement and speed. And try not to move your left arm so much, it should just resist the movement of the right side, not match it. You've never seen any instructions at all, have you?"

"There are instructions?"

"Videos and things. Clearly the answer's no." She loosen her grip on my arms a bit, then tightened them again when my left side started to move too much again. It was obvious I was going to have to get used to having people grab me at random points in time if she was going to be my teacher. I wasn't sure I liked it.

"I can't do anything with you holding me!"

"I'll let go. Stop complaining."

It took everything I had not to fake a crying fit to get someone to come and get this lunatic away from me. It was so, so very tempting. Instead, I tried to distract her. "Compete for what?"

"That depends what competition you're in. Obviously."

"You're really mean," I pouted. "I hope Papa finds someone else to teach me."

"Believe me, I could say the same." Marie released me again and I concentrated on keeping my left arm from moving too much. After a moment, she nodded and stepped back a bit. "You can do what you like now."

I had planned on just looping and relooping the strings around the diabolo for starters, but I wasn't sure how to while I was crisscrossing the strings the way I was now. Instead, I threw it into the air, spun quickly beneath it, and caught it, going back to my usual acceleration routine where I was comfortable doing loops. Marie snorted, but I detected a hint of amusement that wasn't just sarcasm. "Show-off."

I ignored her and smiled. This was fun. This was the stuff I liked doing.

"You're moving your legs too much."

I locked my knees and nearly fell over. I expected to hear Marie laughing at me, but instead she walked over and knelt down beside me. "Careful. These mats won't keep you from getting hurt."

I stopped the diabolo and looked at her. "Oh."

Marie's eyes were darker now, and she almost looked concerned. I wasn't sure how to react. After a moment, she met my gaze. "If you're good enough, then you'll be competing to be the world diabolo champion. That takes a lot of work, though. You have to get through all the other competitions first. But that's the ultimate goal. I suppose it's what everyone is striving for."

I rubbed at my nose absently, trying to get rid of the sudden desire to cry that swept over me. "Oh."

The young woman held my gaze for a long time. She stayed kneeling beside me in her green leotard underneath the black cardigan and matching swishy pants, studying me in my freshly washed pink pants and flower-patterned top for forever, and her gaze was unreadable. It was hard not to fidget under her scrutiny, but I was proud and not about to back down. I somehow held my ground, though my eyes kept flickering away from hers. It wasn't possible to hold her gaze that way. It was too strong, whatever hid behind those dark eyes.

When Marie stood, I almost jumped at the suddenness of it. She nodded to herself and crossed her arms, all the hostility and ego back in place. "I'm sure your parents-" She said it the way some people might say, "your dog" after you've failed to clean up after it. "-expect me to turn you into a world champion. They usually do."

"I don't think they care," I said quietly. The thought hadn't occurred to me before that there would be competitions. I wasn't sure I liked that idea. And yet...

I wanted that title so badly that I ached.

"Well." Marie ran a hand through her short hair and shot me a look. "They will. Show me that throw I told you about. I want to see you do it right."

* * *

"Mademoiselle Fleur says Rosetta has definite talent," my father commented at dinner. "She'll continue to teach her."

"I don't like her," I protested angrily, leaning forward onto the table.

"Elbows, Rosetta," my mother chastised absently. "And don't talk with your mouth full." She turned to my father. "She will? That's wonderful! How much will it cost us?"

"Nothing we can't afford. Something like 120 francs per lesson."

"Oh, I suppose that's about average, isn't it?"

I took a quick drink of milk to wash down the rest of my food and tried again. "I don't like her!"

"Rosetta, that's not very nice. She came very highly recommended." My father's tone was stern, but he looked a bit wary. "Why don't you like her?"

"Oh, don't encourage her, please, this woman's the only one we've found. Why risk it?"

I ignored my mother. "She's mean. She says mean things about you and Mama and makes fun of me. I don't think she likes me."

"Is that so." My father seemed to think about this for a second or two. "Well, that might fade with time. You probably aren't used to her yet. Why not give it another couple of lessons before you decide?"

"I don't need more lessons, I don't like her _now!"_

"Rosette, don't shout!" my mother cried. "Really! What happened to your manners?"

"Sorry, Mama."

I went back to my quiche while my parents began discussing finances. Sometimes adults could be so frustrating. They just dismissed me like I wasn't really there, or like I couldn't possibly know anything about what was going on. It drove me insane sometimes. How could they be so blind? Just because I was little didn't mean I didn't know things!

After dinner, I went outside to play on the porch. I didn't enjoy it, not really, but Mama wouldn't let me go into the yard once it got dark, so I had to stay under the porch lights instead. I usually brought out one of my puzzles or a couple of toys with me, but tonight I brought my diabolos with me instead. I really didn't want Marie to be my teacher. There was no doubt of that in my mind. But...I had to admit, some of the things she'd shown me that day were helpful. It was much easier to catch and balance the diabolo when I threw it from my side as opposed to straight on. And it did accelerate faster if I kept the string looped around the middle for a few revolutions before unwinding it. It took me half the time it usually did to get the diabolo to crawl up the strings, even if I tangled things up a bit more often than I had in months before getting the hang of it.

And her words about the world championship stayed in my mind. They wouldn't leave.

It was too dark to see when the diabolos went flying up past the lights. I almost missed the first one when it came back down, and the second one went wild and bounced off the string, crashing down onto the wooden deck with a crash. I let out a cry of distress...I hated missing. I couldn't help it.

"Rosetta?" My mother leaned out the door and put a hand to her heart. "Oh, good, you're all right. I thought you'd fallen down or something!" She took in the scene, and a slight frown came to her face. "Bring those inside. It's too dark for you to be practicing. You might toss one into the yard and I don't want you going after it."

I pouted, but obeyed. The rest of the evening I watched television with my father until it was time for bed. There was a movie on about a princess who'd lost her true love to pirates years ago and was marrying a horrible prince because there was nothing left for her; but her true love came back to her and saved her from kidnappers and there were giants and swordfights and pirates and giant, scar rat creatures that made me squeal and pretend to hide behind my father. It was more than enough to fill my head with dreams and fantasies.

Yet as I fell asleep, my mind turned back to what Marie had said. And when I slept, my dreams were filled with spinning colors, and the applause of millions.


	3. Chapter Three

Up, down. Up, down. Keep the right hand still, let the left hand do all the work. Knees bent but still. Throw, spin, catch. Throw, spin, catch. Throw, loop the string up, release the right hand-

"Stop!"

The diabolo thumped dully onto the mats and I stared at it, stunned. Marie's footsteps were almost silent as she ran lightly to my side, but her hands squeezed my arms until I thought they would break when she grabbed them, and her voice was a siren wail of frustration. "I swear, are you _trying_ to aggravate me? Or are you really that stupid?"

The words tore out of my throat before I even knew I meant to say them, childish and indignant. "What did I _do?"_

"What did you-" Marie looked like she was about to explode...her face was certainly red enough. I wondered if she's just blow off the top of her head like a volcano, or if she'd actually blow up into thousands of little gross pieces that I'd never get out of my leotard. "What did she do, she asks!"

My teacher abruptly released me, almost shoving me away as she did so, and stood again. I rubbed at my arms and glared at her with injured dignity as she stalked in small circles around the area where we were practicing, rubbing her temples with her fingers and hissing out her breath through her teeth. Finally, she whirled on me and put her hands on her hips. "What you did, Mademoiselle Passel, is you ignored my instructions, and you nearly knocked out yourself or one of the other students."

I protested, "How did I-"

"One." Marie held up one slender finger like a sword point. "You finished that second spin with your legs so far apart I could crawl underneath you."

A small part of me wanted to snap back that she was probably too old and fat to crawl under _my_ small body, but children being lectured learn quickly to subdue those urges. I managed, somehow. "Two. You dropped the right stick first. I _told_ you to work on breaking that habit of relying too much on your dominant hand. That's why we're working the left side more. Or was there so much on your little mind you just forgot it?"

My lips trembled at the sarcastic and disgusted tone of her voice when she spoke those last words, and my eyes began to burn.

"Three. Your throwing that last time was _all_ wrong, completely and utterly. You don't throw it like you're planning on catching it and then wait, that's all wrong. You throw it about half that height so all you have to do is throw up your string and then you don't have to catch it at all!"

I covered my face without thinking, and wished I had hands left to cover my ears.

_"Four._ Your fourth mistake, Mademoiselle Passel, is that because you did not listen when I specifically warned you not to try and catch your diabolo when switching sticks, your string was too tense. If I hadn't stopped you, when you finished switching hands the diabolo would have gone spinning right up the string and bounced off the stick, flying off God only knows where." Her voice took on a mocking tone, but her eyes still blazed. "You're so wonderful at getting that little toy to spin so fast, it'd probably fly pretty far if it ricocheted off that stick, wouldn't it? So fast it would probably hurt if it hit someone, that's pretty fast, isn't it?"

All of the indignation and how dare she's had faded away into shame and fear...it didn't matter that I still didn't like Marie even after so many lessons, she was an adult and I was a six year old child and she was yelling at me for doing something very, very bad.

"Can you give me one good reason," Marie continued to rage, "why you refuse to follow any simple directions that you are given? What will it take, Mademoiselle Passel? Hospitalizing one of the other children here, or even yourself?"

I tried not to cry very often, lest I shame myself in front of my classmates and be labeled a crybaby and a wimp, but I couldn't stop my eyes from overflowing at my teacher's words and I scrubbed furiously at my eyes to keep the tears from falling where she could see them. The movement must have caught her attention, however, because a moment later Marie took my arm with surprising gentleness, took the diabolo from my cold fingertips, and led me off of the practice mat and into one of the offices in the back of the gym.

Under normal circumstances I probably would have been alive with curiosity at being taken back to the offices that the students were under no circumstances allowed to enter, but at that moment I was too upset and frightened to feel any excitement about the situation. Despite the lightness of Marie's grip and the fact that she was certainly not forcing me to come with her--on the contrary, she stopped and waited with me every time I started to resist and refused to walk any further and would not say a word until I followed her on my own--but I still believed that she was taking me away to tell the head of the gym that I was a naughty and selfish child and that I would never be able to return to my lessons there again, and even more than the humiliation would have been if that were the case I was terrified of having to leave my diabolo learning behind. It was true that I hardly listened to what Marie told me if I thought there was a way to do the same thing that I already knew and preferred, but I was learning and I wanted to keep learning even more. The techniques, the new tricks, the little bits of information I was able to glean from Marie and others about those competitions she kept alluding to…I did not want to leave it behind, not in the least. Besides, if Marie threw me out, my parents would punish me as well for being so careless and bad, and what if they took away my diabolos entirely, for good?

Marie led me into one of the offices and closed the door behind her. I climbed into one of the chairs, trying my hardest not to sniff too loudly and keep my tears hidden, but of course it did not work very well. I was still a child, after all. Children are not very adept at hiding their emotions and while I take pride in being more composed and calm than most my age, I'm sure back then I was no exception to the rule. Marie sat in a chair beside me rather than behind the desk as I would have expected if I were not so upset, waited until I was a bit calmer, and passed me a tissue. "Rosetta."

I paused in the act of wiping my nose and felt my eyes well up again at the sound of her voice. Marie clearly noticed because she immediately reached out and took my free hand in hers. "Rosetta, can you stop crying for a moment and listen to me? You aren't in any trouble, I promise."

There were so many things that were unbelievable about that simple statement that I stopped crying out of surprise. "But…" I dabbed at my eyes and nose with the tissue and sniffed to try and clear my voice. "Aren't you angry at me?"

"Of course I am angry with you!" she nearly snapped, and closed her eyes with a visible effort at controlling herself. "You refuse to listen to me, no matter what I say or tell you to do unless it suits you. You never even stop to think that perhaps there is a reason I tell you these things!"

The volume of her voice had been steadily rising despite her efforts, but before I could start to cry again Marie opened her eyes and shook her head. "I'm not sure what to do with you. But you aren't in trouble. I just think that we need to talk."

"You aren't going to tell my parents?"

"Why would I?" With another shake of her head, she sighed. "You need to stay calm if you don't want them to know, though. Your face is so blotchy and red right now that anyone on the street could tell that you're upset. Promise me that you'll stay calm and quiet until I am finished, all right?"

I nodded solemnly, still worried and not willing to say no to anything my teacher told me at that particular moment, no matter what that might be.

"All of these rules and techniques aren't just silly orders for you to follow," Marie began. "I'm not telling you to do these things because I'm some sort of witch or mean person who just wants to boss you around."

I nearly opened my mouth to say something smart back at that, but I had promised I would stay silent and so I did not speak.

"First of all, you need to understand that while the diabolo is fun, it can also be dangerous."

"I know that," I interrupted without thinking, and Marie closed her eyes for a moment in exasperation.

"I'm not just talking about breaking things and getting into trouble with your parents, Mademoiselle Passel. What I told you out there is completely possible; if I just dropped your diabolo on your head it would hurt quite a bit, wouldn't it?" She waited until I nodded my understanding before continuing on. "Imagine if it hit you after it was flying through the air at top speed. It's exactly like getting hit with a rock that someone throws at you, only a little bit less dangerous. Not much, though. Do you understand?"

I nodded again, my eyes wide and horrified. I had never thought about it like that before. I knew that my parents were always concerned about me hurting myself when I played with my diabolo on my own no matter how good I got at it, but I had never understood why. Now, though…now I did. I felt shamed and horrified all over again.

"If you aren't careful and do everything in the safest manner possible, you could hurt yourself or someone else very easily, like I told you earlier. It could happen another way, too. You could trip over your strings and fall wrong or fall on your sticks or poke yourself with them or simply stand wrong and hurt yourself trying to spin improperly. You see, Rosetta, these techniques are just like rules for doing diabolo and if you don't follow them, people could get hurt, even you." Marie released my hand and reached for another tissue to give me. The one I already had was balled and twisted up in my hand and utterly useless as a result. "There is another reason you need to learn to listen to me as well. You want to compete, don't you?"

"I want to be world champion," I answered immediately, even though I was still in the dark as to what competing and being world champion actually entailed. I only knew that I wanted it.

"Well, if you want to be world champion, you need to learn to follow orders. The judges at competitions won't just be looking at how creative your routine is. They also want to make sure that you are following the rules, using the proper techniques just like everyone else in the competitions, including all of the techniques and tricks that you are required to in any given competition…" Marie smiled a bit nastily at the expression of bemusement and distress on my face. "It's all very complex, isn't it?"

"Is it really that hard?" I asked quietly.

"It is. But!" My teacher held up one elegant finger to keep me from speaking. "That does not mean that you can't do it. If you are already used to doing everything the way that the judges expect you to, then it won't be nearly as difficult as it sounds. You are practicing for competitions with me, which means you need to be willing to listen to me when I tell you to do something differently than how you want to. So then," she finished as she leaned back in her chair and studied me. "Do you understand now why I was so angry?"

"You didn't have to…" I began, but a stern look and a raised eyebrow from Marie had me swallowing the rest of my protest. "Yes, Mademoiselle Fleur. I understand."

"Will you listen to me from now on instead of fighting me when I tell you to do something that is more difficult for you now?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle Fleur."

"Good." Marie stood and helped me to climb down from my chair. "Let's start by seeing if you can follow my instructions about your left side and throwing techniques."

* * *

As difficult as it was to follow Marie Fleur's instructions when I already had my own way of doing things that seemed much easier and more fun, her lecture did get through to me. I had ever really thought about why my parents had been so worried about me playing with the diabolo when I was little, much less now, or even if there were other reasons for them telling me that I could not throw it indoors especially around other people outside of the risk of breaking something or disrupting them somehow. I studied my diabolos very closely after the lecture, even my little old plastic one from all those years ago, and after throwing them experimentally against the side of the house and the door until my mother told me to stop right that minute or I would be in awfully bit trouble, I concluded that Marie had not been exaggerating. They were big, they were heavy, and I had not trouble at all imagining the loud, painful thunk the diabolo made when it hit the house being applied to my own head. If the adults thought that me following Marie's directions would keep people from getting hurt, well, they must be right then.

Even more importantly, though, I had finally learned something about competing and the competitions to be the world champion diabolo performer. It all did sound terribly difficult. And yet…hearing even that discouraging bit of information had only made me want it even more. It was like hearing from an adult that you would hate something they were eating but they still won't tell you what it _is_ exactly. The more I heard, the more I wanted to try it myself and find out everything, absolutely everything, that I wasn't being told.

The challenge in itself appealed to me as well. If there were so many rules, there must be a reason for it, right? Was it to make sure that everyone was doing the same thing? How did they know who was the best, then?

Well, that was simply enough to figure out. The person who won was the one who could do everything perfectly when everyone else couldn't.

I wanted to be the best. I wanted everyone in the world to know that I was the best, always. So if I had to follow the same rules as everyone else, then I had to follow them perfectly so that I _was_ the best. And I was going to be the very best, I knew it. There was no doubt about it. I would be world champion, and so I would follow all of the rules.

Marie had a much easier time working with me from then on.

* * *

Over the summer, my diabolo practices had become the center of my world, and when first grade began I had trouble going back to school and integrating myself with the normal children again. My mind had a single focus and it was so different from theirs that it made things rather difficult at first. I had already distanced myself from them the previous school year in order to save myself any teasing and bullying over any trace of an accent I might accidentally let slip, so I did not really have any friends at school as it was, and now I wasn't sure if I would ever have any. I didn't really mind that much, so long as my peers respected me properly, but still I felt bewildered by the other children's behavior and more than a little bit curious as to what their motivations could possibly be.

Recess was the most confusing part of the day. I joined the other little girls over on the jungle gym and bars, but unlike them I had a purpose in being there. Marie had been working with me on increasing my flexibility by having me do bridges over the gymnastic bars to stretch out the front of my legs. She also had suggested to my parents that I start taking one gymnastics class a week in addition to my lessons with her so that I could learn the basic movements I would need to know for my routines outside of spinning and actually working the diabolo. So while the other girls played aimlessly, I sat on the parallel bars with one leg propped up on the opposite bar as I stretched over it, or practiced basic flips and rolls off of the bars, or any number of similar things designed to help me further my own goals. I wanted to compete as soon as possible, so every free moment was time to practice, even during recess. Besides, it was still fun.

Meanwhile, the other girls swung on the bars or climbed over them or flipped around them with no evidence of any technique whatsoever or even just sat on them and chatted with each other, and I simply could not fathom what the purpose was at all.

Yet despite my curiosity I never actually asked the other girls what they were doing, even for the sake of a literal answer. I puzzled over their motivations and what purpose their play might have, but I was too preoccupied with my own actions to ask during recess and there was never time during class or after school since I either went straight home to play with my diabolos or to the gym to practice with Marie every day. Perhaps if there had been more time my curiosity would have gotten the best of me and I would have finally asked them, but as it was I never had the chance. Someone else beat me to it.

"Hello."

I curled up from where I was leaning backwards off of the bars to find myself staring in the dark eyes of another girl my age with long black hair sitting next to me. She smiled and waved one hand happily at me. "What are you doing?"

It took me a moment to answer, as the question was completely unexpected. It had never even occurred to me that the other girls might not have any idea what I was up to. "I'm stretching," I replied at last.

"Oh." The girl frowned in thought and asked, "Why?"

My brows drew together in a combination of annoyance and confusion. "It's for practice. Of course."

"Practice for what?"

"For the circus," I answered her with complete honesty. Imagine my surprise when she start giggling at my words. I didn't see anything funny about it at all. What was she laughing at exactly?

At last the girl stopped laughing and continued to smile at me with a friendly expression. "What does hanging off of the bars do to help you practice for the circus?"

"I told you, I'm stretching." I leaned back again to demonstrate, enjoying the burn in my hamstrings as I did so. "It makes me more flexible and stronger."

"Are you an acrobat then?"

I sat up again immediately and all but shouted at her. "I'm a _diabolist_, not an acrobat. It's not the same at all!"

The girl scooted away a bit with an expression of surprise on her face. "Well, I didn't know what you did. You just said you were practicing for the circus." She pouted for a moment and then suddenly was all smiles again. "I've never known anyone in the circus before. What's your name?"

"I'm Rosetta Passel," I answered, still somewhat offended and angry at the girl.

"I'm Analise Merchant," the girl chirped happily. "I like your name. It's like a flower."

"It's supposed to be," I told her with a bit less anger towards her now. "My mother picked it."

"Really? I'm just named after my grandmother. Are you really in the circus, Rosetta?"

"Not really. Not yet," I amended, letting my feet fall from where they had been propped against the other parallel bar and swinging my legs back and forth idly. "Someday I will be. And I'll be a world champion diabolist when I grow up."

Analise kicked her legs back and forth in time with mine, mimicking me without seeming to think about it. "That's really neat. Hey, is diabolo anything like baton? My mother wants me to start taking baton like she did when she was little like me. Do they do baton in the circus? We could be in the circus together that way!"

"I can ask Marie. I've only been to the circus once."

"I think they have batons in the circus. Hey, you can help me practice, like you do every day. You can show me stretches and things, right?"

"Sure. They're really easy."

"Good. I haven't even started yet, so I don't want it to be too hard. If you say it's easy, though, that's okay, since we're friends now. Friends don't lie, right?"

I agreed with her without thinking, smiling back happily myself, matching Analise's expression tooth for tooth. Suddenly I thought I might understand what the other girls were doing when they were out playing during recess. They were having fun, too, just with their friends instead of alone.

Having a friend was definitely fun.


End file.
